


Battered

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old Sansa would have said <i>love</i>, but she stopped being capable of that word long ago.  Jon, it seems, has been so long without it he doesn’t notice its absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battered

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the You Win or You Die—A Game of Thrones Kink Meme for fauxkaren’s prompt _Sansa initiates and overcomes Jon's initial doubts_. R + L = J applies.

Jon frowns as he reads the message from King’s Landing, his lips curled into a dark pout against his pale skin. Sansa knows it’s from the Queen, can probably even guess what the letter is about, but she ignores the building silence and continues to stroke Ghost’s pure, white fur.

The fire is warm against her back. Too warm. She straightens from where she’d been slouched on the fur rug and stares past the flames, through the tall, narrow windows in Jon’s solar, out toward the frosted grounds of Winterfell. It’s dark, and all she can see is the black of the night sky and the pale gray of the diminishing snowdrifts. 

Winter will be over soon, but she doesn’t like to think on what will change as spring comes.

“What does the Queen say?” she asks neutrally, her fingers ghosting over the soft shadowcat pelt.

“She wants you to marry Trystane Martell of Dorne.”

“And what do you think of Trystane Martell?” Sansa queries, pushing her hair over her shoulder.

“I think you would be wasted on him. He’s a boy. You would have to wait years for him to understand what a marriage meant,” Jon says bluntly, folding up the Queen’s letter and casting it aside. 

Sansa holds in her relief and tries to remain aloof. She knows that one day she will have to marry, that one day a letter will come and Jon will not be so reluctant towards the idea. Their reunion was a bright, wonderful thing in the middle of an unyielding war, but with the days growing longer and winter receding she will have to leave again. It doesn’t matter that Jon isn’t her brother; he is still her only family, even if they are merely cousins, her last tie to the north.

With marriage, she knows, that tie will be severed. Sansa will be lucky to see him once every few years, luckier still if she manages to return to Winterfell as many times. The thought shatters something in her, makes her ache for the family that was so cruelly dismantled.

Jon is all she has left.

“I don’t suppose I have much choice in the matter,” she says. Jon looks at her for a moment, his brow drawn.

“Choice, my lady?”

“In marriage. In leaving,” Sansa explains.

His eyes meet hers from his seat at the writing table, dark and full of a sad understanding. Jon rises from his place and takes a seat closer to her by the fire, perching himself on the edge of the chair. She leans a little nearer to him in spite of herself.

“I understand if you want to wait. You’ve only just come home, the war has just ended—no one will raise questions if you do not wish to marry so soon.”

Now she is nearly holding her breath, nervousness wound tightly in her chest. “And if I don’t wish to marry at all?”

Heart in her throat, Sansa watches as her words make their impact. Jon reaches out and touches her cheek, his hands blazing a warm trail across her skin. Something flutters low in her belly and she has to keep herself from closing her eyes or crawling into his lap.

“Sansa, is there someone? You can tell me—“

“Yes,” she answers, quickly, truthfully. And then she does lean into his hand, does move towards him from her place on the rug.

Surprise is evident on Jon’s face, he had not expected this, she can see, but he isn’t as surprised as she’d anticipated. Before she swallows down the impulse, pushes it past the lump in her throat, Sansa places her hand on his knee. He is frozen at the edge of his seat, his full lips slightly parted, neither shoving her away nor drawing her closer.

_Please, let me_ , she wants to say, _let me make you smile again._ Instead, Sansa reaches for the ribbon that weaves over the front of her dress. She loosens it, causing her neckline to lower and show her pale chest, dipping past the lacy edge of the shift she wears underneath.

Jon stands before she can stop him. He doesn’t leave the room, but he does turn away from her, tension obvious in the line of his shoulders.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing,” he bites out, his voice low and gravely.

Sansa clamors from the floor and follows him, willing Jon to face her with a firm hand on his forearm. He turns his head, gray eyes flashing, and she blazes forward despite the heavy press of fear in her mind.

“Yes, I do. I’ve thought about exactly what I want to do for weeks now. I’m not a maid, Jon. I didn’t manage to completely escape Lord Baelish. It happened once, a year ago, and I want to know what it’s really supposed to be like...for people that care about each other.”

The old Sansa would have said _love_ , but she stopped being capable of that word long ago. Jon, it seems, has been so long without it he doesn’t notice its absence.

“We are not Lannisters,” he hisses, holding his ground.

“No, but we’re not siblings, either,” she points out. 

Sansa reaches between them and takes his hand, places it just on the cusp of her breast. Jon is taller than her and she has to look up to meet his eyes but she sees desire there, a cold, hungry part of him that she wants to stitch back together.

And then he kisses her.

Her breath is caught between them as Jon presses his lips to hers. She parts her mouth as his tongue presses against her own, his arm curling around her waist. Sansa feels like a delicious heat has struck in her lower stomach, making every part of her burn with it, with the feel of Jon’s young, warm body against hers. He cups her breast as she knots his dark hair in her hands, pulling at the curls to ground herself while his fingers ghost over her skin.

Jon picks her up with the ease of a man fully grown, caries her into his bedchamber, the same rooms her Lord father used to have, the same bed. The back of her legs brush the mattress and then she is shedding her clothes, pulling her dress down her shoulders and letting it pool at her feet. 

“Gods, Sansa, your perfect,” he says, dragging his fingers through her long hair, his lips on her jaw. She shivers at the compliment and draws him closer.

Jon removes his doublet and then she pulls at his tunic, bringing it over his head and taking in his smooth skin, the hard planes of muscle beneath her hands. Sansa allows him to ease her back onto the bed, loving the soft feel of so few clothes between them.

Her breath comes in small pants. She leans forward as Jon lifts the hem of her shift, dragging it up her body, his fingers catching her bare skin. Now she is in just her smallclothes and when he lies down next to her she can feel the length of him against her hip. It’s erotic and so physically _real_ that the sensation makes her hips arch toward him.

Jon kisses his way across her jaw and down her neck, his warm hands lightly tugging at her nipples. Sansa shuts her eyes and leans into him, reaches for the laces of his breeches while he kisses her shoulder. She brushes against his length and draws her hand lightly over his cock, taking him in her grip. He makes a soft noise that she didn’t expect and it sends a massive current of desire through her, emboldens her to stroke him and feel the leaking tip of his head.

At this, Jon bites her neck and she presses her legs together in frustration. He sits up and pulls his breeches off in one quick motion, ridding himself of the last of his clothes. Sansa hurries to do the same, loves the shock of the cool air against her flushed skin and the silky feel of the furs against her naked legs. Jon leans against the wirewood headboard and pulls her on top of him, feeling between her thighs. 

“Come here,” he says, his hand on her hip. She rubs herself against his touch, moans as his fingers brush her entrance, tightly circling that sensitive place at the apex of her legs.

Sansa has never been on top of a man before, not like this, and it seems that he understands this from the uncertain way she holds her body. He takes her hips between his hands, easing her down on his cock, her body wet and ready. The sensation as she slides down him makes them both groan—she is tight, her inner muscles tensing around him, and Jon is holding her hips so tightly she might break.

She holds onto his chest and gives a little cry, lets her body adjust to the feel of him completely inside her. “ _Jon_ ,” she says, her nails digging into his back.

His rough kiss pitches her into action, makes her hips rock back and forth against his body. Sansa curls herself around him and focuses on the heat licking through her insides, on the sharp, beautiful feeling of Jon between her legs. He pulls her to his body and rolls her underneath him, easing her onto the furs, kissing her neck as he angles forward and makes her shudder.

It is not love, and it certainly is not what she would have dreamed for herself as a girl, but the sweeping, tangible rush of her body around Jon’s is better than any song or dream she’s ever known. Sansa gasps and clutches him, immobile as he tenses beneath her hands and moans her name. Breathing loudly, she holds him over her in the darkness of his chambers, clutching the last piece of her battered heart.

Jon is all she has left.

 

**fin.**


End file.
